


Hot Spots

by Dizzojay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Chicken Pox, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzojay/pseuds/Dizzojay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hot, oh boy, it's hot. Those boys are fractious, and Dean's got an itch ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The suffocating heatwave was entering it's third week.

Day after day, the sun bled it's relentless, vermillion path across the sky, leaving the southern three quarters of the United States simmering helplessly under the oppressive, choking heat; wilting just a little bit more with each passing day.

Newspaper headlines screamed 'Hottest Day in Living Memory', and 'No End In Sight,' but the clammy, limp-haired population was just too exhausted and torpid to bother reading them as life slowly ground to a halt in the stifling heat which bore down day after day, heavier and hotter. Families retreated indoors, panting dogs sprawled on shrivelled, sun-scorched lawns, and even the birds were too heat-dazed to sing.

xxxxx

Cutting through the airless furnace like a bullet, a sleek black car roared along a deserted strip of shimmering, half-melted asphalt, seemingly untroubled by the sweltering paralysis around her.

By contrast, the frosty chill permeating her smart leather-clad interior would have made an Eskimo shiver.

Pointedly ignoring each other, insofar as that is possible when you're sitting eighteen inches apart, her two cranky occupants sat stewing moodily, glaring intently through the windscreen, their respective jaws set in matching stubborn grimaces.

"Dean, I am not bustin;' my ass to find us a hunt in Alaska." Sam suddenly snapped, "just because His Precious Lordship of the Sweaty Butt-Cheeks is a bit warm." He folded his arms across his chest in a gesture which matched his scowl perfectly.

Dean let out a petulant huff, blinking to clear his vision as he rubbed a sweaty palm over his glistening neck. "Well, ain't you a ray of friggin' sunshine?" he snorted, "what bug crawled up your pansy-ass an' died?"

"We're all hot, so just quit your moanin'," Sam spat back.

"I'm not moanin'," Dean snorted, "I'm sick of listening to your whinin'."

He effected an effeminate voice, "I'm hot; I'm sweaty; Ive gotta moisturise; shut the window, it's messin' my hair up …"

Sam closed his eyes and leaned back, scrubbing a clammy hand through his damp hair. His sense of humour had evaporated along with the beads of sweat on his forehead, and it was only the fact that Dean was driving the swiftly moving vehicle that he was currently sitting in that was stopping him from smacking his obnoxious brother into the middle of next week.

Over the last few days, the Winchesters had narrowly avoided coming to blows on more than one occasion. Tempers had flared regularly in the blazing heat and Dean's 'be as annoying as humanly possible' gene had kicked in impressively.

Taking a deep breath, Sam knew he was taking his life into his hands, and hesitated before speaking; "an' anyway, I don't think we should be thinking about long journeys; I think you're …"

"Don't go there …" Dean interrupted, an edge of menace in his voice.

Sam knew his creeping concern, initially voiced a couple of days ago, was the thing that had set off all the escalating exchanges of sulky bickering. Not to be deterred, however, he tried again, "I think you're coming down with something."

The suspicion had been there for a while now; the slightly glassy look in Dean's eyes, the throat rubbing, the laboured huffing and sighing, the short temper. Sam knew that the heat was inclined to make Dean irritable, but this Dean was beyond irritable; he was bristling with belligerence; a walking affray waiting to happen.

"You're talkin' crap," was the measured response.

"You look a bit flushed."

Dean's eyes never left the road. "I look a bit flushed, Einstein, because it's, like, about a zillion degrees out there."

Sam shook his head, "no it's more than that;" he continued, "we're both hot and bothered but you look like you've just walked out of a sauna."

"Sam …"

"I've seen you swallowing aspirins like there's no tomorrow."

"Yeah, well, this friggin' heat makes my head ache."

Sam took his chance; "all the more reason why we should rest up for a couple of days."

Dean huffed theatrically, and scratched his head.

"Jeez, if it'll keep you quiet," Dean groaned irritably, "still don' see why we can' go to Alaska," he added in a quiet grumble. As he spoke, he leaned forward, snaking an arm round to scratch his back through the clinging, soaked fabric of his t-shirt.

Sam took a deep breath; "I reckon we should just hole up somewhere with air conditioning for a few days, then at least we can be comfortable." He sighed, choking wetly on the sticky air; "we might even get through this hot spell without killin' each other."

Dean grunted; "why, what you planning on doing - stabbing me with your mascara brush?"

There was a brief silence punctuated by a laboured huff as he raised his arm and scratched his armpit lavishly.

"Dean!" Sam grimaced in disgust, "give it a rest with the scratching already, that's disgusting. What are you, a friggin' chimp?"

"Crappy damn weather," snapped Dean, "reckon I got a prickly heat rash." His hand strayed towards his sweat-soaked back again, "an' I think I've scratched my freakin' back raw. Firs' thing I'm gonna do when we find a friggin' room is have a cool shower."

It was another hot and bothered hour of driving and fighting over whether the windows should be open or closed, before the Impala pulled over.

The Winchesters leaned over each other peering through the passenger window up at the grey, uninspiring building that loomed alongside them. In underwhelmed silence, they scanned the high grey walls and grimy windows, but through the lingering heat haze both brothers faces twitched into a strained smile as they read the magic words; 'Air Conditioning in Every Room'.

Sam closed his eyes and tried so hard to ignore Dean rooting furiously in his armpit again.

xxxxx

In room 14 of the Roadrunner Motel, Sam lay on his bed, and allowed his eyes to drift out of focus as he stared at cobwebs on the ceiling. He was simply too drained to move. The simple act of carrying his duffel from the car, walking into the room and pulling his boots off had left him feeling like he'd never walk again.

The air conditioning which had been so optimistically promised on the sign outside turned out to be an ancient unit which appeared to have struggled through one hot Summer too many. It rattled and clanked, switching between a soporific drone and a strained whine, shuddering as it belched out sporadic bursts of cool air across the room.

From underneath now closed eyelids, Sam could hear Dean muttering angrily to himself as he sat on the side of his bed and clumsily yanked his rank, sweat-soaked T shirt off over his head, throwing it to the floor with a wet splat.

He hoped and prayed that there was a decent shower because, after the disappointment of the feeble air conditioner, Dean's mood was growing blacker with each passing moment, and a puny shower? Sam didn't even want to think of the consequences.

He cracked open one eye, looking up from his pillow to see Dean padding barefoot past his bed, "goin' for a shower; he grunted sourly.

Nodding limply, Sam glanced up and blinked as something caught his eye.

"Dean," he called.

"What?" The response echoed gruffly from within the bathroom.

"C'mere," Sam shuffled off the end of the bed, "just wanna check something."

Dean stomped back out of the bathroom, huffily buttoning his jeans back up; "the hell, dude? I'm hot, wan' my friggin' shower!"

Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulders and spun him round, ignoring his brother's outraged squawk.

"Dean, since when have you had a spotty back?"

Dean turned, a look of outrage on his face, "uh, since never …" he snapped.

Sam bent down to look again, trying to hold his squirming brother still as he leaned in closer, wincing at how raw Dean's skin looked after all his scratching. There was definitely a scattering of inflamed, crimson spots between Dean's shoulder blades.

"Dean… you've got spots all over your back!" Sam muttered quietly.

"What the hell are you talkin' abou … GYUH!"

Dean gasped as Sam spun him round again. A cursory inspection of his chest revealed that it was, so far at least, spot-free, but if Dean was shocked at that, it was nothing to his reaction when Sam, thinking back to his journey in the Impala next to an armpit-exploring brother, tugged up his arm and grimaced when he saw a cluster of angry, weeping spots nestling there.

"Dean pulled his arm away with a yelp, stumbling backwards as he did so. "What the hell?" He wrapped his arms defensively around himself, "will you quit pawin' me about?"

xxxxx

It all fell into place; the headaches, the irritability, the sore throat, the temperature, and now … the spots.

Sam sighed deeply and scraped and hand over his sweat-slicked brow, looking at his huddled brother's furiously wide-eyed face with a weak smile.

"Dude;" he groaned weakly, "you've got chickenpox!"

xxxxx


	2. Chapter 2

Dean stared at his brother, his eyes widening to the point that Sam was genuinely concerned they might fall out of his face; "are you freakin' insane?"

"uh, no; not that I recall;" Sam responded cautiously.

"I can't have Chickenpox … I'm thirty years old; a grown man in case you hadn't friggin' noticed Hawkeye!"

Sam winced as Dean's voice began to take on an ever so slightly hysterical pitch. He shrugged, "and …?"

Dean's eyes narrowed menacingly; "and … only kids get Chickenpox you friggin' jerk!"

Shaking his head, Sam took care to plaster an expression of sympathetic tolerance over his face; "no Dean; MOSTLY kids get Chickenpox."

Dean's shoulders slumped, making it easier for him to squirm round and have a good scratch between them. "Mostly? What d'you mean mostly?"

"I mean it's mostly children that get Chickenpox, and a few adults who never had it when they were kids." He hesitated; "did you have it when you were a kid?"

"No;" Dean threw his arms in the air melodramatically, "I was too friggin' busy takin' care of your sorry ass while Dad was off savin' the human race, to go down with anything so distractin' as Chickenpox." He snorted petulantly, and busily scratched his neck.

"Quit scratchin'," snapped Sam, "Chickenpox spots scar if you keep scratchin' them. D'y wanna be disfigured for life?"

Dean huffed out a barely audible but obviously obscene response. "Well it's just a good job I ain't got freakin' Chickenpox then." He glared at Sam; "tol' you, it's a heat rash."

"Dean: c'mon man, surely even you can see the glaringly obvious here …" Sam bit his lip to mask a heavy sigh, watching as Dean folded his arms across his chest, almost immediately unfolding them again to have another scratch.

Sam wasn't above pleading if that's what it took to make his idiot brother see sense; "please dude, humour me here." He turned on the puppy dog face; not the ordinary puppy dog face, but the 'abandoned starving by a roadside on a winters night' puppy dog face. "Chickenpox is far worse in adults; please, we need to get you to a doctor."

Sam could swear he saw a brief look of alarm flash across Dean's face before the shutters came down again; "I'm goin' to have a cool shower, then a little bit of antihistamine cream should sort this damn rash out." Dean muttered, pointedly not looking Sam in the face.

Sam snorted in furious exasperation as Dean stomped off towards the bathroom. "Fine," he snorted angrily, "do what you like then you friggin' MORON; jus' don't go outside because you're contagious."

The bathroom door slammed shut, dislodging a festival of cobwebs and Sam heard the bolt slide home on the other side; he slumped, exhausted, on the side of the bed with his head in his sweaty palms and muttered all the rude words he could think of.

It was less than a minute before he heard the bolt slide back again and the bathroom door fly open with a force that created a most agreeable breeze. Dean scampered back into the bedroom on stiff, bare legs.

"Look at my legs," he gasped, "LOOK AT THEM!"

Sam stared at the offending legs; trying with all his might to ignore the fact his brother was standing before him wearing only a pair of boxers that had been through the laundry so many times, they only appeared to be held together by a sense of optimism.

Deans legs were covered in spots.

If it wasn't so serious, it might have been funny.

Dean looked up pathetically at Sam; "it's not prickly heat is it?"

Sam shook his head, furiously biting his lip. He was not going to say 'I told you so'; he was bigger than that.

"I've got friggin' chickenpox haven't I?" Dean fumed.

"Uh yeah!" Sam nodded sadly.

Dean scratched his knee, and flopped heavily onto the corner of the bed; "I look like a freakin' dalmation," he croaked.

Looking up at Sam's sympathetic face, his expression changed from outrage to abject misery.

"So freakin' hot Sammy; don' wanna be itchy too …" he moaned, "I can't put up with this all through this crappy hot spell."

Sam gave a sympathetic smile; he didn't have the heart to tell his brother it was probably going to get much worse.

"Sammy; what if you catch it?" Dean looked up at his brother looming over him.

"I already had it;" Sam replied calmly, "when I was about two; surprised you don't remember."

Dean huffed petulantly; "well, ain't you the lucky one!" He looked round in irritation as the ramshackle air conditioner gave a tortured whine, releasing another damp puff of slightly less stifling air.

His eyes narrowed to a glare; "an' you can freakin' shut up too," he yelled, aiming a furious kick at the ancient unit.

It gave a gruesome grinding rattle, rocking slightly on it's base before gradually falling silent.

Sam slapped a hand over his sweat beaded forehead. "Oh well done!" He yelled, "the one thing that could have made you a just a little bit more comfortable, and you've totalled it." He stomped towards the crippled unit; "where did you learn to be such a damn jerk? Did you take lessons, or does it come naturally?"

Dean scowled, "stupid bit of crap." He mumbled despondently.

xxxxx

Sam wandered around the brightly lit aisles of the local drug store, relishing their refreshing – and working - air conditioning; he stocked up on all the things he figured he was going to need for the brothers' coming ordeal; Tylenol, antihistamine tablets, antihistamine cream, calamine lotion, cotton wool, and aspirins just for starters. It was a pity these places didn't stock 'the patience of a saint' bottled and flavoured orange; Sam pondered he would be needing plenty of that over the next few days.

His jaw clenched as he thought back only moments ago to how the brothers had argued violently over Dean seeing a doctor. Dean's flat refusal had resulted in Sam storming out of the room.

'I'm covered in itchy spots and I feel like shit. Seein' as I've never had Chickenpox before, I don't need some dude with letters after their name to tell me I've got the friggin' disease."

Sam barked out a bitter laugh, causing a young woman stacking shelves next to him to look round and eye him warily. That reasoning, coming from the man who had earlier absolutely refused to even acknowledge the possibility of having Chickenpox; Gods, the man was so freakin' volatile, it was like having Sam's very own little seismic event trailing around after him.

So once again, thanks to his brother's thick-headed stubborn streak, it was down to Sam.

Deep joy.

xxxxx

Sam handed over two shabby twenty dollar bills to pay for all his goods, and drove back to the motel with all the Impala's windows wound open. He rubbed a clammy hand over the back of his sweat soaked neck and sighed; heck this damn heat wasn't going anywhere; if anything, it was getting hotter!

Trudging wearily across the sun-baked car park laden down with his shopping, he paused to look at a comatose cat stretched out on the low wall in front of the building; "wish I could just chill out and sunbathe like you dude," he muttered, smiling at the cat whose amber eyes regarded him with a look of calculated apathy.

He made a detour into reception on his way back to the room to ask for a fan. Smiling sweetly at the middle-aged receptionist, he was desperate to say "my idiotic cretin of a big brother who deserves a damn good slap threw a tantrum and broke your air conditioner;" but what actually came out was, "I'm terribly sorry to bother you ma'am, but our air conditioning doesn't work."

Thus it was with two bags of shopping and a pair of portable electric fans that Sam stumbled into the room, gasping as a stifling wall of humidity hit him.

He glanced up into the sky before closing the door, desperate to see some sign of a thunderstorm or any other indication the weather was breaking. Instead the late afternoon sun simply continued to beat down on him from it's cloudless horizon.

xxxxx

Dean was sprawled out face down on his bed; damp haired from a shower while Sam was out at the store and, Sam was somewhat dismayed to see, wearing only another pair of ancient boxers.

Sam approached the prone figure, unsure of whether he was asleep or actually aware was back in the room. Dean's recently showered bare back was already glistening with sweat and, Sam winced as he saw that it was scratched raw; a few more spots had erupted since the last time he looked only a couple of hours ago, gradually working their way down Dean's spine; a small angry-looking cluster evident across the small of his back.

Dean opened his eyes, and propped himself up on his forearms to look up at Sam; heavy-eyed and disorientated; "feel like shit, S'mmy" he groaned.

Sam's anger instantly dissipated and he laid a sympathetic hand on Dean's shoulder, drawing in a sharp breath when he felt the intense heat radiating from his skin.

"C'mon dude," Sam fought against his fatigue to keep his voice light, "I'm gonna set up some fans, an' try to cool you down."

"What 'bout you?" Dean's head tried to follow Sam as he walked round the bed, but an increasing stiffness in his neck made him flinch.

Sam smiled unconvincingly as he fiddled with the fans, setting one on the nightstand, the other on a little table which he dragged down to the other side of Dean's bed. "I'm fine dude, I'll have a shower and a rest when I've sorted you out." He flicked the switches on the fans, and directed the resultant breezes in Dean's direction.

"Better?" he asked, "hmmmmm ..." Dean mumbled an affirmative into his forearms.

Satisfied with the answer, Sam rummaged in the bag for the calamine lotion and antihistamine pills; "c'mon bro', I'm gonna paint you pink." He grasped Dean's shoulders, helping him to sit up on the edge of the bed; "lets get you comfortable, then you can try to get some sleep."

Dean nodded meekly and swallowed the tablets, grimacing at the burning of his sore throat, and flinched as Sam dabbed a cold dollop of calamine lotion on his bare back.

He scratched furiously under his arm; "ngguuhhh, this is drivin' me mad;" he snorted angrily through clenched teeth.

"Quit diggin' around under there," Sam barked, lifting Dean's arm and slapping a generous layer of the pink goo under it, calmly ignoring Dean's indignant protests.

"an' friggin' humiliating," Dean moaned, wiping the back of his hand over his damp forehead. "Jeez, my head hurts, where's those aspirins?" he groaned.

Sam shook his head; "not yet, not straight after the antihistamines." He shrugged an apology, "Sorry bro', in a bit."

"Turn round" smiled Sam, "anything on your front yet?" Dean sighed and obediently shuffled round to face Sam. his eyelids drooped as if the effort of that small motion had exhausted him.

A scattering of spots had begun to erupt across the hollow of his chest and Sam attacked them with the calamine lotion, slapping a wandering hand away from scratching them. "Leave them alone" he scolded.

Dean gave him a jaded two fingered salute.

"Charming!" grinned Sam, and knelt down to treat Dean's spot-riddled legs.

"You know, this can be a lot worse in adults" Sam said softly as he gently and thoroughly worked the calamine over Dean's legs, "you need to take it easy and let me know if anything gets worse; we might still have to get you to a doctor". Sam's heart went out to his big brother; he was relishing the opportunity to help Dean through this horrible experience, heck; Dean had given enough for him over the years, but didn't want to make it into some kind of big drama. He was only too aware the pink flush across Dean's cheeks wasn't entirely down to the heat.

He was distracted from his thoughts by a hand worming it's way up to scratch a raw shoulder; "itches," Dean mumbled.

"I know dude," Sam sympathised, quietly lifting the hand away, "it sucks!"

Sam continued to work matter-of-factly and in discreet silence, dabbing on the cool chalky lotion over his brother's fidgeting legs, soothing the angry rash as best he could, ignoring Dean's moans and wandering hands as he feebly attempted to scratch away his distress.

Eventually satisfied with his handiwork, Sam gathered up all the soiled cotton wool and wiped his hands on his jeans. He regarded the pink-blotched figure slumped on the bed looking up at him through watery, heavy lidded eyes; a picture of abject misery.

"Anywhere I've missed?" He asked. "Yeah, and it's staying missed too …" Dean replied, little more than a hoarse whisper.

"Ah, okay;" Sam stood up, "try to get some sleep bro'; and don't scratch."

Dean scowled as he shuffled down onto the bed, "can' help it; s'orrible," he snorted, attacking the new spots on his chest.

Sam pulled his arm away; "don't!"

"bitch."

xxxxx

Sam sat on his bed, warm, but refreshed after a shower, and relished the mild breeze circulating over Dean's bed. Nightfall had taken the edge off the heat, and Sam felt comfortable for the first time today.

He rubbed his eyes and yawned, exhausted by the drama of the days events combined with the soul sapping heat; sleep wouldn't be a long time coming tonight, he was quite sure of that.

Dean had finally settled, face down, with only a thin cotton sheet pulled up to his waist. To Sam's relief, he had finally drifted off into a twitchy, fitful sleep after a couple of hours fretting and fidgeting. He sighed, feeling completely helpless; his heart went out to his suffering big brother.

Sam watched soft, rhythmic breaths lifting Dean's raw back as he slept. He noticed a feverish sheen of sweat across his shoulders and neck, despite the cooling effect of the fans and a pained knot between his brows.

What he didn't see, however, was a sly hand under the sheet furiously scratching at an infernally itchy midriff.

xxxxx


	3. Chapter 3

Sam drifted into wakefulness with a hoarse groan and rolled onto his side, blinking through the darkness. He glanced at his watch; 3.30 am. Around five hours since he had settled Dean, and put his own tired head down.

He yawned taking in a stifling lungful of the spongy air and stretched lavishly, pushing down the sweat-dampened cotton sheet which was draped over his body, clinging clammily to his legs. Damn this hot spell; even nightfall wasn't bringing the blessed relief that everyone was hoping for.

He didn't know what had woken him from what had been a deep and refreshing sleep despite the heat, but he guessed it may have had something to do with the crawling sense of unease which was currently gripping the pit of his stomach.

Instinctively, he squinted through the shadows at the bed beside him which creaked and groaned as it's uncomfortable occupant shifted uneasily.

Dean had long since kicked the threadbare cotton sheet off his bed and was lying flat on his front, spreadeagled as far across the mattress as he could possibly spread himself. Sam could clearly see the heaving of his back as he panted miserably in the insufferable heat.

"Y'ok Dean?" Sam asked softly.

He leaned towards the bed, trying to see if Dean was awake. When no response came, he tried again; a little louder to make himself heard over the humming of the fans which seemed to be doing little to ease his brother's distress.

Dean's head lifted with seemingly enormous effort and he looked up through the gloom toward Sam, squirming uncomfortably as he rubbed the back of a forearm across his brow. He croaked something monosyllabic and swallowed harshly, shaking his head.

"Dean, How ya doin, dude?"

He was trying to sit up.

As Dean hauled himself into a lop-sided sitting position, he gave a series of rapid, choking gulps. Turning towards Sam, he blinked in panic, throwing a shaking hand over his mouth. Sam immediately got the message.

Sliding down off his bed, he scampered across the room, grabbing the trash can and dashed back, just in time to drop to his knees beside Dean as he lurched forward, retching suddenly and violently into the offered receptacle.

Sam crouched beside his big brother and reached up, placing a hand on the back of Dean's convulsing neck, sucking in a sharp breath as he felt the burning heat radiating off of it. His fingers worked their way into the soaked hair at Dean's nape, kneading and soothing, trying to calm the violent spasms of his nausea.

"Hey, it's ok dude, just let it out;" Sam murmured pointlessly, as if Dean had any choice in the matter.

After a few moments, the heaving subsided and Dean slumped against Sam, utterly spent. He panted harshly, spitting bitter bile into the trash can. In the moonlight, Sam could see the tears of frustrated, furious despair soaking his flushed face.

"…sucks S'my," he groaned when he could at last draw breath.

Sam smiled sadly and squeezed Dean's hot, inflamed shoulder, pushing the trashcan to one side, making a mental note to be aware of it and not kick it over as he got up.

Sam leaned over Dean; "I'm gonna put the light on dude, you might wanna cover your eyes," he whispered, and reached up over Dean's head to flick the switch on the wall lamp over the bed before Dean had a chance to protest.

He paled at the sight before him.

Dean sat slumped on the side of the bed, shivering feverishly and squinting through the sudden illumination under a raised hand.

A livid flush coloured his cheeks and neck, contrasting violently with the dull grey smudges beneath his glazed, pain-filled eyes. The chickenpox rash was mercifully light across his face; only a faint scattering of spots was evident across his cheeks, jawline, and neck; Sam thanked God, Heaven and anything else he could think of for that small mercy.

Dean was soaked in his own sweat; his chickenpox ravaged body absolutely running with it. The mattress he had been laying on felt like someone had tipped a bucket of warm water over it.

Sam could see from Dean's raised hand the angry rash which had spread out from his back, along his shoulders and arms. Clusters of inflamed blisters peppered them, particularly where the skin was thinnest and warmest such as at the crooks of his elbows, under his arms and at his wrists.

There were angry raised welts criss-crossing his forearms where Dean had been scratching desperately, despite all Sam's warnings. Sam stared in shock, covering his gaping mouth with a shaking hand. He should be angry with Dean for ignoring his advice and doing this to himself, but he couldn't bring himself to be even slightly annoyed with the poor suffering figure beside him.

The spots had also spread round and across Dean's chest and stomach, covering the skin there with a fiery, burning rash, riddled with angry red spots, which again looked sore and bloody in patches where Dean had clearly been scratching himself raw.

"Dean;" whispered Sam.

Dean looked up at his brother, and for a moment Sam saw the utter misery that this horrible illness was inflicting in those watery, blinking eyes.

"Sam, I want this to stop," he whispered in despair, "so hot … an' sick … won' stop itchin; feels like freakin' ants crawlin' all over me." He gave a pained cough, wincing as his dry throat hurt, "wanna tear all my skin off Sam, just wan' it to stop itchin'."

As if to reinforce the point, Dean reached up with a shaky hand and scratched his neck.

"I'll do what I can to help you dude," Sam soothed, gently but firmly lifting the hand away. He tensed as Dean's breath hitched and his hunched back shuddered.

"You okay? You gonna puke again?" Sam reached round behind him for the trash can.

Dean shook his head; "not yet … soon though," he gulped, reaching round and tearing at his shoulder.

Once again, Sam discreetly lifted Dean's hand away and stood up with a grunt as both his knees clicked; man, he was getting to old for this.

"I'm gonna check your temp, bro', you're burning up."

Dean nodded vacantly, his eyes struggling to remain open as he looked up at Sam; the one person he trusted to offer some relief from this nightmare.

He watched hazily as Sam fumbled in the first aid kit to find their thermometer, and opened up obediently when Sam asked, allowing the thermometer to be gently slipped under his tongue.

"S'gonna be okay, this crap only lasts for a few days," Sam murmured hopefully as he timed the thermometer, desperate to think of something to say that might comfort his poor, suffering brother.

xxxxx

"Jesus Dean," Sam gasped as he looked at the thermometer, "it's over 100, we gotta get you cooled off; that'll help with the …"

His voice was abruptly cut off as Dean lurched forward, doubling over again, and Sam just managed to thrust the trashcan under his chin, watching helplessly as his brother retched and gagged violently, gripping the trashcan with white-knuckled ferocity as he did his best to turn himself inside out.

Sam bit his lip fighting back tears as he kneaded his brother's relatively rash-free nape feeling the muscles straining and protesting as the awful nausea strained Dean's fever-racked body. All he wanted was to be able to offer some small comfort to his brother through this whole horrible episode.

After it passed, the second spell of sickness left Dean so weak, he ended up slumped limply against Sam's shoulder; a shaking hand weakly clawing at his arm. Once again, Sam gently pulled the hand away, feeling bad for doing so.

When he felt Dean had recovered to a degree, he leaned in close to the flushed face, close enough to see a bead of sweat slip down his temple; "Dean, I'm going to rinse the trash can, then I'm gonna run a cool bath for you."

He waited for a listless nod, "the Pharmacist told me about some – uh - stuff we can put in it to soothe the irritation for you." He waited again for a reaction, "sounds good huh?"

Dean nodded again, swallowing hard as he rubbed his clammy forehead.

"Head hurts S'my – c'n I have aspirin?" The voice was barely a whisper.

Sam hesitated; "will you be able to keep it down?"

Dean shook his head despondently, "uh, don' think so …"

Sam almost smiled at his brother's confusion, and knelt down again; jeez, his knees were gonna hate him by the end of this night.

"I think it's the fever that's causing the nausea," he smiled sympathetically, gently grasping Dean's shoulders, taking care not to aggravate the angry rash, "lets get you cooled off, an' then you can take a Tylenol; that'll help the headache and the fever."

Dean nodded, "kay S'my…" He hesitated; "'m thirsty, c'n I have a glass o' water?"

Sam rolled his eyes; "just a little drop, dude … don' want you throwin' up in the bath."

Dean's brow furrowed; "what bath?"

Sam sighed; "never mind dude, just take it easy for a bit, okay?"

Dean nodded, "'kay S'mmy."

Sam glanced back at his brother, "you gonna be okay while I go an' rinse the trashcan?"

A cautious nod; "yeah … c'n I have an aspirin?"

Sam rubbed his face; oh heck, it was too hot for this. Dean, I thought we said …" He looked back at the pitiful figure slumped on the bed, "oh, hell never mind!"Sam's hand slipped away from Dean's shoulders as he headed off to the bathroom in search of the Tylenol. He felt Dean flinch at the loss of contact.

xxxxx


	4. Chapter 4

Sam walked back across the room from the bathroom, and crouched down beside Dean; "c'mon dude, all ready."

Dean was sitting exactly as Sam had left him; hunched vacantly on the edge of the bed, the breeze from the fans ruffling his hair but seemingly doing nothing to alleviate his feverish discomfort.

Relieved to see that Dean hadn't needed to call upon the services of the trashcan again, Sam slipped a hand across his brother's back, helping him up into a wobbly-kneed standing position.

He sucked in a sharp breath; "jeez Dean, this rash is burning - no wonder you feel so hot."

Together they made their way slowly and carefully to the bathroom, Dean stumbling on legs made of rubber as Sam all but held him up.

Squinting through watery eyes, Dean blinked at the bathroom's undiffused light; blinding and clinical compared to the dim glow of the wall lamps in the main room. He shaded his eyes with a shaky hand as Sam lowered him to sit on the edge of the bath.

Dean seemed to have snapped back into some shadow of alertness at Sam's touch, and he stared intently into the tub before wrinkling his nose at the cloudy water. "Whassat?" he croaked looking up at Sam; his sore burning throat aggravated by his violent nausea spell, barely able to produce a whisper.

Sam glanced into the bath, "uh, I put something in it, dude," he muttered, "something that's supposed to be really good at helping with the itching."

Dean blinked, absently scratching his belly and looked into the bath again; "Wha'?"

Sam hesitated, hoping he could get Dean into the bath before he had to go into detail.

He scratched his head, "ah, it's nothin' much – just some stuff the pharmacist said to put in the water and it would soothe the itching," He smiled, gesturing towards the bathtub, "why don't you get in?"

Dean arranged his fatigued, flushed features into a glare. He might be sick, but he knew a bunch of bull when he heard it; "what 'stuff'?"

Sam shrugged; "oatmeal," he sighed, and reached into the bath pulling out an oatmeal stuffed sock tied up with string.

Dean's eyes widened; "f-friggin' oatmeal?" he stammered, "Y' gonna put milk an' maple syrup in there for me too?"

"It's supposed to be really good for painful skin conditions …" Sam smiled weakly.

Dean's head slumped onto his chest, "an' I really thought this whole crappy day couldn't get any more freakin' humiliating …"

xxxxx

Sam guessed Dean's grumble wasn't a refusal and so carried on regardless of the huffing and sighing emanating from his brother's direction.

He pointed to Dean's boxers "what'd you wanna do about these, dude?" Dean looked up, seemingly not understanding the question. Sam tried again; "wanna take them off or leave them on?" Dean blinked, wiping his watering eyes; "uh, dunno..."

Sam rolled his eyes; "never mind."

He wrestled Dean into a standing position, puffing and panting as the strength sapping humidity seemed to make Dean weigh twice as much, and tugged his boxers down before his brother even had a chance to protest. Patting Dean's calves to force him to step out of them, he pulled out from under his brother's feet, tossing them into the corner of the room.

"C'mon spotty…" he smiled, hooking an arm around Dean's back and supporting him as he turned to step into the tub. Dean swayed slightly, squirming as he tried to abrade his stinging back against Sam's shoulder.

"You gonna be okay?" Sam looked down into his brother's flushed face; "need the trashcan?" Dean shook his head, and leaned heavily into Sam's chest as he lifted a shaky leg over the edge of the tub, tentatively stepping into the bath.

He gasped as he lowered himself into the cloudy water, "hah … cold."

Gently but firmly, Sam held Dean's shoulders to stop him from trying to climb out of the tub; "It's not that cold;" Sam replied softly, "I'm not gonna run a freezin' cold bath and give you hypothermia on top of everything else, dude." He cupped his hand in the water and palmed the cool water across the back of Dean's shoulders eliciting a gasping shudder from his brother.

"Sorry man," he smiled, "the rash is making your skin feel burning hot, that's why the water feels so cold, but we've gotta cool you down then you'll be a lot more comfortable."

Sam stood up to reach for the facecloths, bending into a weary stretch. A wry smile crossed his face; it's four o'clock in the morning and I'm bathing my thirty year old brother. Man, our life is weird.

Sam worked quietly and without fuss, gently sponging the luke-warm water across Dean's shoulders and down his raw hunched back, winching at the angry rash that was causing his brother so much distress.

As he worked, Dean listlessly splashed the cool water up over his raw, sweat-soaked chest and throat, wet hands sliding down from his feverishly hot face, working in tandem with Sam's therapeutic touch, cooling the burn all over his body. He sighed softly; sure, he was sitting here stark naked in a tub of cold friggin' breakfast cereal, covered in spots like some kind of freakin' lameass dalmation; yep, all in all this was right up there with the most humiliating, sucky experiences of his life, and yet he couldn't deny the relief that it brought.

Little bro' sure knew his stuff; Dean had to give the lanky bitch that. He closed his eyes and focussed on Sam's hands rubbing cooling anaesthetising circles over his tense, stinging back.

xxxxx

The exercise also gave Sam a good look at Dean's condition and the fierce outbreak of blisters across his body. He winced at the damage Dean had inflicted on himself by his desperate scratching.

Dean remained largely silent the whole time, and Sam bit his lip in sympathy, knowing Dean was thoroughly miserable and utterly mortified as he sat allowing Sam to soothe away his distress, his confident hands working with a thoroughness that betrayed his own fatigue.

Dean shuddered, but didn't complain, closing his eyes as he allowed Sam to work, largely unhindered. It was enough satisfaction for Sam that his brother looked more relaxed than at any time since the whole nightmare began.

Sam gave Dean a few moments to collect his thoughts then crouched down beside the bath. "Ready to get out?" he asked, kneeling down and looking Dean straight in the eye. He smiled when Dean gave a slow nod from behind heavy lidded eyes.

"How ya doing; feeling better?" Dean glanced up at Sam, "yeah," he grunted softly, taking the offered hand as he clambered clumsily out of the bath.

Feet on the floor, Dean stumbled and sat meekly on the edge of the bathtub as Sam patted him down with a dry towel, following up with a liberal slathering of antihistamine cream across his blazing shoulders, under his arms and across his stomach where he had inflicted the worst damage on himself during the height of his hot, irritating misery.

"Open," Sam instructed, slipping the thermometer into Dean's mouth again when he wearily obeyed.

"…'od 'm edache," he mumbled round the thermometer.

"I think I understood that," grinned Sam, "I got the Tylenol, you can take it when we're done." He stood up with a huff and wiped a forearm across his glistening brow as he timed the thermometer.

"woss'mng?" Dean muttered.

Sam removed the thermometer, uh?"

"what's wrong?" Dean repeated, looking Sam up and down with a suspicious eye; "you hot? You gettin' sick?"

"Nah, not sick," Sam sighed, looking down at the thermometer. "it's hot work bathing your heavy ass!"

Dean snorted, sounding stronger than he had all day; "yeah, well, don' worry Florence, you ain't gonna be making a habit of it."

Sam shook his head with a smile; "thank God for small mercies," he sighed, "you're a bit cooler now, feel better?"

Dean nodded, breathing deeply.

"Gonna hurl?" Sam lifted the toilet seat, ready.

"No" Dean shook his head, "feel better now."

He looked down and cringed. "I'll feel even better still when I've got some clothes on," he added glumly, gesturing down to himself in all his spotty and irritated naked glory.

Sam smiled weakly; "uh, yeah dude. So will I!"

Xxxxx

Sam sat in his bed and watched his brother sleep.

A combination of the cool oatmeal bath (which both embarrassed parties agreed would never be mentioned again under pain of death), the antihistamine cream, and a dose of Tylenol which Dean had managed to keep down much to Sam's relief had, at least for now, soothed Dean's distress, enabling him to find some much-needed rest in his freshly made bed. Sam had some industrial strength antihistamine tablets on standby in case Dean woke up again and needed any assistance in finding his way back to the land of nod.

Sam snorted sourly when he saw the sun's rays already creeping along the horizon, bringing a sheen of sweat across his brow with it. He lay back, closing his eyes and sighed knowing that there was another stifling hot, stressful day ahead; but that could wait.

For now the only thing he planned to do was follow his brother into sleep …

… all he had to do first was bleach his brain of highly disturbing wet, naked brother images.

xxxxx


	5. Chapter 5

Sitting at a small wobbly-legged table opposite the end of Dean's bed Sam chewed listlessly on his breakfast. It had taken him almost twenty minutes to dispose of the grilled cheese sandwich he had forced himself to make; His appetite, heavily suppressed by the crushing heat and nagging concern was fighting every mouthful of the tangy snack. Ideally he would have managed easier with something light and bland like oatmeal but he didn't think he'd ever be able to face the thought of eating the stuff again.

He looked up over his coffee mug squinting blearily through the grime coating the window and the heat haze blurring the world beyond; God, it was hotter than ever. As his unfocussed eyes lingered, he noticed that the cat which greeted him so apathetically those few days ago was still spreadeagled idly along the wall outside.

Sam put his coffee down and leaned on the table, resting his chin in his hand as he stared curiously at the motionless ginger throw rug. Surely it must have moved between then and now; is the damn thing nailed there?

Behind him, bedsprings creaked as Dean shifted uncomfortably on his sweat-dampened mattress; sprawled face-down, he was as limp and comatose as the sunbathing cat thanks to the industrial-strength antihistamines Sam had been plying him with ever since he had awoken once again in some distress about six hours after the infamous oatmeal bath.

Turning his attentions from the cat which he had now decided was probably dead and stuffed, Sam looked across at his brother, his face smooshed deeply into his pillows, a thin, screwed up cotton sheet tangled messily around his hips. His raw back glistened with sweat, and Sam sighed; he really did feel so sorry for the poor guy.

As he watched, a sly hand shifted slowly upwards to surreptitiously scratch a spot-ravaged shoulder.

"Dean, quit scratching!"

The hand froze, mid-scratch and swivelled, raising a single finger to show what it thought of Sam and his 'quit scratching' advice.

Sam allowed himself a small smile and rose, strolling across the room to kneel down beside the bed, "how ya doin' bro?"

Dean's rasping voice was muffled into his pillow; "like shit," he replied bluntly.

"That good huh?" Sam smiled sadly. He pressed the back of a hand across Dean's cheek.

"So freakin' hot …"

Sam shuddered at the burning heat radiating from his brother's face.

Taking the thermometer from a glass on the nightstand, Sam tapped Dean on the shoulder, "c'mon dude, open up!" Dean's face emerged, blinking tearily, from the pillow, and if it hadn't been so heartbreaking, it might have been funny. His bleary, heavily flushed face looked slightly flattened where it had been buried in the bedlinen, complete with a slightly crooked indentation of a raised seam bisecting his forehead.

Looking at the thermometer, Sam gasped; "crap Dean, it's higher than ever, over 103."

Dean made an non-committal noise, something between a sigh and a grunt and his head flopped back down into the pillows.

xxxxx

In the bathroom, Sam ran a towel under the cold tap, wringing it out over the bath. He carried it over to the bed and laid it across Dean's burning back and shoulders, flinching as Dean Jerked wildly, clambering up onto his elbows with a yelp.

"Gah … dude, at least friggin' tell me when you're gonna do something like that," he croaked through a gasp.

Sam shook his head, "Sorry man, but you're way too hot."

Dean flopped down again; "whole sonofabitch world is too hot," he groaned, "wan' go to Alaska."

"Want something to eat?" Sam asked hopefully.

Dean replied with a listless shake of the head; "not hungry," he mumbled back into the pillow.

"Throat still sore?" Sam continued wheedling, "wanna drink? You need to drink."

The nod was barely perceptible; "throat sore, light hurts my eyes, head aches, every-friggin'-thing aches, still itchin' all over."

"Still feelin' sick?" Sam asked placing a glass of water on the nightstand, helping Dean to sit up so he could drink it.

Dean shook his head, and attempted to disguise a shuddering, gulping breath. Sam knew that meant yes.

How the hell could someone look as pallid as death and painfully flushed at the same time? Sam's heart went out to his brother. Dean's hunched, defeated shoulders; his dejected expression; his whole body dripped misery.

After he had drunk the water he lay back down on his side, panting miserably as he closed his eyes. That's when Sam noticed his side, inflamed with scabbed blisters, and stained with blood where he had been scratching himself.

"Man, you look like shit."

"Thanks Nurse Ratchet," Dean mumured quietly, "we need t' work on that bedside manner."

"Wan another bath?" Sam asked, "would that help?".

"No," the response came without a moment's hesitation.

"We've gotta cool you down somehow," Sam pleaded, "you're burnin' up."

Dean shook his head; "lemme sleep … head hurts …"

Sam could feel himself start to panic; "Dean it's been two days and you're sicker than ever, I really think you need to see a doctor."

Dean glared up at his brother without lifting his head from the pillow; "don' need no friggin' quack to tell me what I already know. Jus' need to rest and for this crappy heat to stop."

Clenching his fists, Sam counted to ten as he stomped into bathroom; emerging a few moments later with a bowl of water and a face cloth. "At least let me try to cool you down; that might make you feel better," he sighed.

A muffled grunt accompanied a twitch; it could have been a nod.

xxxxx

Sam fiddled irritably with the fans, trying to find a position where they were both pointing more directly at his brother, and sat beside the bed, lifting the now warm, damp towel from Dean's shoulders.

He wiped the cold flannel across Dean's neck, cringing as the elder Winchester flinched under the chill, but unlike before he didn't complain, closing his eyes and remaining disturbingly silent instead.

Working methodically, Sam worked the cool cloth across Dean's shoulders and down his back, gently moving outwards from his spine, over and over; washing cooling refreshing circles of care, always mindful not to aggravate the rash which, if anything, seemed angrier than ever. He followed up by gently dabbing a coating of cool, soothing calamine over Dean's raw back, smiling as His brother softly sighed, murmuring quietly into his pillows.

He scraped a hand through his damp fringe. Even the simple act of tending Dean had left him drained; this damned heat was relentless, gradually wearing him down. He sighed as he plucked at his T shirt; fresh on this morning, it was already damp, clinging uncomfortably across his back, and pinching clammily under his arms.

But, he was at least pleased to see that Dean's breathing had evened out, and Sam felt satisfied that his brother had relaxed under his tender ministrations. He leaned in close, but could still feel the heat radiating off Dean's sweat beaded face.

"D'y wanna roll over dude?" he whispered.

No response

"Dude? C'mon, I need to do your front …" a little louder.

Sam couldn't make up his mind whether the fact that Dean had fallen asleep after only being awake about twenty minutes was good thing or a bad thing. Sure, he needed to sleep, but antihistamine drowsiness notwithstanding, he seemed worryingly incapable of staying awake. Pressing a hand on his sleeping brother's shoulder, Sam could feel deep tremors racking the hot, clammy body and his mouth tightened in concern. Something wasn't right; he had a bad, bad feeling and to make matters worse, the stubborn ass was adamant he wasn't going to see a doctor.

Deciding he only had one option, he picked up the phone. Sure, Dean would gripe and bitch; he would have a battle on his hands, one which he really didn't need in this damned stinking heat, but he was past caring. Crap times call for crap measures, and Sam was resolutely convinced this qualified comfortably as a crap time.

He dialled the number.

xxxxx

It was dark when Sam opened his eyes.

He wasn't quite sure where the day had gone. It had vanished in a haze of heat induced lethargy and gut-clenching concern.

Dean had barely opened his eyes all day, and Sam had flitted between trying to keep him cool, coaxing him to drink, administering Tylenol, applying calamine lotion, checking his temperature and wrestling wandering hands away from hot, itchy places.

Exhaustion had finally driven Sam to close his eyes and rest his weary head long before the sun had finally set.

Not exhausted enough it seemed, to be able to sleep undisturbed, however. Sam sighed, glancing at his watch; 2.30 am. He gulped a mouthful of choking humidity and threw an arm over his eyes. He'd need all his strength for the fight tomorrow when he told Dean he'd booked him a doctors appointment and the way things were going, it looked like his strength wasn't going to amount to much.

He squinted through the darkness across the room to see how Dean was doing, and it was then he noticed the bed was empty.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes. He didn't remember hearing Dean get up; oh, crap … he hadn't fallen out of bed?

Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and instantly noticed a sliver of light across the bottom of the bathroom door.

Stifling a yawn, he padded over to the door and timidly tapped on it.

"Dean, you ok in there?"

No answer.

He tapped again, a little louder.

"Dean, need any help?"

He was met once again by silence, and a cold bolt of alarm struck him.

Bathroom visits had been the only activity that Dean in his weakened condition was determined to manage alone, and he was aggressively adamant that it would stay that way. Despite his overwhelming urge to help, Sam knew that hovering too close under those particular circumstances was only likely to earn him a smack in the ear, and so he reluctantly kept a discreet, but concerned, distance.

So far, however, Dean had always made it back to bed without incident.

He tried the door and to his relief, discovered it wasn't locked. Pushing it open, he peered cautiously into the bathroom, blinking wetly against the stark light.

His exhaustion vaporised instantly when he saw Dean lying unconscious on the floor.

xxxxx


	6. Chapter 6

Sam stared wide-eyed in disbelief at the solemn white-coated figure standing before him. He had introduced himself as Doctor Lawrence, but the irony of his name was lost on Sam in his fear and confusion.

His mouth worked silently for a long, desperate moment as he tried to form the word.

"S-septicaemia?"

Lawrence nodded, "yes, I'm afraid so, Mr Wilton, uh … Sam."

Sam blinked, shaking his head to clear the whirling turmoil in his mind. "Is that like blood poisoning?" he asked, his shocked voice small with fear.

The Doctor's grim face softened, and he gestured to a padded couch beside them.

"Shall we have a seat?" He extended a hand across Sam's back, appearing genuinely concerned that he might pass out.

Sam nodded, and sat obediently, waiting for Lawrence to sit beside him

"Septicaemia is the medical name for what is commonly called blood poisoning;" Lawrence began, speaking softly and sympathetically.

Sam stared blankly at floor as the man beside him spoke.

"But he only had chickenpox," he offered weakly, "he can't have blood poi - I mean - Septicaemia."

Lawrence smiled sadly; "I know, it seems wild," he replied kindly, "but septicaemia can be a side-effect of extreme cases of chickenpox."

Sam closed his eyes, and swallowed back a wave of nausea as the doctor continued. "It can potentially result anytime there's an open wound," he explained; "in the case of a chickenpox sufferer it often happens if the rash has been scratched enough to break the skin, allowing impurities to enter the bloodstream."

He gave a small shrug; "Sometimes it can simply be a result of an infection in the lesions caused by the illness," he continued, "It's just the worst kind of bad luck, I'm sorry."

Sam huffed a bitter laugh.

Winchester luck; yeah, figures.

He scraped a hand over his face and looked up at Lawrence, "is he going to die?"

The doctor took a deep breath before he spoke; "I'm not going to lie to you, Sam;" he said, "septicaemia is extremely serious."

He paused for a moment to let Sam take in the revelation. "but," he continued, his hands opening towards Sam in a universal gesture of honesty, "all the signs are you've caught it relatively early and he has his strength and fitness on his side."

"We're pumping him full of very strong antibiotics, together with fluids to raise his blood pressure and it seems to be helping because he was just beginning to come round before I came out to find you."

"I'm afraid all we can do now is wait."

Sam nodded; "can I see him?"

Lawrence smiled; "of course, follow me."

Silently following Lawrence into Dean's ICU room, Sam turned to thank him.

"He's regained consciousness but he's not terribly lucid, so don't expect too much," the doctor warned.

Sam nodded again.

"… and above everything, he needs to rest."

"Sure, doc; and thanks again." Smiling sadly, Sam watched the doctor as he discreetly left the room and quietly shut the door behind him.

xxxxx

Sam sat down beside the bed containing his brother, and reached across to press his hand against the top of Dean's head. He watched as his brother's eyes fluttered open, and his head canted towards Sam.

"Hey dude," Sam murmured softly, "you gave me a real bad scare, you jerk!"

Dean treated Sam to a shaky smile. He mouthed the word 'bitch' but no sound came out.

He tried to speak again, but Sam cut him off, carding his fingers through his brother's damp hair.

"Shhh ... don't worry, just rest." Sam gave a watery smile, "You're very sick; doctor says you've got to rest."

"Only had chi'npox…" Dean croaked.

"Shhhh."

Sam was delighted to hear Dean speak, despite how broken and weak his voice sounded. He closed his eyes and his mind wandered back to that terrible moment he had found Dean slumped on the bathroom floor.

No amount of shouting and shaking had been able to engender any reaction, and Sam's frantic 911 call had ended up with his brother being stretchered into the back of an ambulance, amidst a flurry of activity, to take a blue-light ride to the local hospital.

And now here he was.

Septi-friggin-caemia.

The word scared Sam to death.

Who the hell gets Septicaemia from chickenpox?

A Winchester, that's who.

xxxxx

Glancing back up to the bed, Sam realised that Dean had drifted off again. Mesmerised by the lazy drip, drip of the life preserving fluids pumping into his brother, he watched Dean sleep, reassured by the shaky rise and fall of his brother's blistered chest, and the wheezing huff as he breathed through the cannula beneath his nose.

Squeezing his eyes closed Sam pinched the bridge of his nose as a wave of dizziness, driven by panic-stricken exhaustion washed over him.

As he sat brooding, he noticed the patches across Dean's side and stomach where he had scratched himself raw had been covered with gauze, and that his hands had also been covered by some kind of fabric, looking vaguely comical almost like he was wearing mittens. Sam guessed that was in place to stop him from scratching and doing any more damage.

Sam took one of his brother's mittened hands, and clutched it tightly; "c'mon dude, just rest, you gotta get better for me, ok?"

He squeezed Dean's hand, rubbing gently through the soft covering, "you gotta get better bro'." He swallowed back the urge to break down, " I mean, who's gonna look after your great big, geeky little brother if you're not here."

Sam sat back in his seat, still clutching Dean's hand, comforted by the contact. Dean looked utterly at peace; far more so than at any time during the last few days.

As he watched the antibiotic drip snaking it's slow, lifegiving way into Dean's arm, and listened to the soporific beep of the heart monitor, Sam relished the comfort of the air-conditioned environment; so comfortable after days and days of soul-sapping heat, and his eyes began to droop.

xxxxx

He didn't realise he'd nodded off until he was jolted awake by the sound of the door opening.

A tall man with dark hair and a kindly face walked into the room. His scrubs and the initials R.N on his name badge told Sam straight away he was a nurse.

"Hi," he smiled, "I'm Ross;" he handed a vending machine cup of coffee to Sam, "thought you might need this, Mr Wilton."

Under any other circumstances Sam would have beamed with wicked glee at the thought of Dean waking up to the attentions of a male nurse. Instead, he took the coffee gratefully, "thanks Ross; call me Sam."

"I'll be overseeing the care of your brother for the next few days," Ross said pleasantly, smiling warmly at Sam, "and if there's anything you need, Sam, you just let me know, huh?"

Sam stretched out his popping joints after his short nap and smiled up at the instantly likeable figure who was walking round the bed.

Ross laid a hand on Dean's shoulder, "Hey there big guy, we're just gonna get you hooked up to a new bag huh?"

Sam watched as the man worked confidently, adjusting the new bag on the drip stand, taking Dean's temperature, checking his pulse, talking softly to his sleeping patient the whole time."

"You've had a rough time of it recently haven't you, huh?"

"He got the chickenpox;" Sam spoke up from the other side of the bed.

"Ugh, that sucks," Ross grimaced with genuine sympathy, "so much worse in adults, huh?"

He turned back to look down at Dean, "an' we can't have you spoiling those great looks with sucky chickenpox scars, now, can we, huh?"

Sam choked briefly into his coffee, and looked up to see Ross standing over his brother still holding his wrist, seemingly checking his pulse for, maybe, the third time.

Eventually releasing his hold on his patient's wrist, Ross carefully laid Dean's hand back across his midriff and walked back around the bed with Dean's chart; temperature's down, blood pressure's stabilised; he's doing real well," he gave an admiring look at his patient, "he's so fit and strong, we'll have him outta here in no time, huh?"

"That'd be great." Sam replied.

"Yeah," sighed Ross, still gazing down at his patient; "but better not to rush these things, huh?" he gushed cheerfully, looking back at Sam.

"I'll leave you in peace now, Ross smiled, "but I'll come back later on to settle him for the night, huh?" He smiled broadly, "and, I tell you what, I'll get some vitamin E oil." He glanced back down to Dean, patting his shoulder with a broad smile, "hey, buddy, we can rub that on your arms and chest once it starts to heal to ease any of those pesky scars, huh?.

Sam nodded with a tight-lipped smile; "that'll be great Ross, he'd really appreciate that," he spluttered, hiding his face behind the empty coffee cup, before saying goodbye to the cheerful man.

His eyes followed Ross as the door closed quietly, and he snorted out the laugh that he had been suppressing for the last five minutes.

"Dude," he chuckled, taking Dean's hand once more; "now you gotta wake up, dude. You can't deny me this!"

Xxxxx


	7. Chapter 7

The following three days passed in a desperate blur for Sam. As Dean lay shivering, and fretting weakly with the infection ravaging his weakened body, he drifted in and out of consciousness, occasionally skirting the edges of awareness, but far more often lost and disorientated in a fog of sickness and heavy medication. For hours, and most terrifying of all, he would lay motionless, pallid and unresponsive under Sam's frightened, despondent gaze.

Sam's mood drifted along with his brother's condition from black despair to cautious hope, with an constant undertone of nauseous concern as Doctor Lawrence's frequent visits offered little in the way of definite encouragement. ' Dean's test results were encouraging …', 'not out of the woods …', 'blood count's much improved on yesterday …', 'next twenty-four hours are critical …', 'long way to go before we'll know for sure …' Jeez, these guys were harder to pin down than some damned perma-tanned, sticky-fingered politician.

One small piece of good fortune was the long-overdue end of the hot spell. Violent thunderstorms in parts of the country overnight had heralded the nightmare's end, and Sam found himself opening the room's one small window the following morning to inhale deeply of the refreshing scent of summer rain. He peered up into the gunmetal grey sky, still pregnant with unfallen rain, and gave a long sigh of relief.

The white noise of the downpour washed over him, soothing and relaxing. He hoped the welcome, lifegiving song would have a similarly healing effect on his brother.

Sam's rock during this difficult time was Ross. The man clearly loved his work, and was as devoted to looking after distressed relatives as he was to taking care of his patients. Empathy and understanding poured off of the man as he fussed around Sam as much as his sick brother; he was clearly a person for whom caring was a born gift, not a learned skill.

Sam had, over those harrowing days, developed a deep respect and no small amount of admiration for the man; especially as it had become patently clear that Ross' level of devotion to this particular patient was driven by something far more entertaining than a desire to do a job well.

His interpretation of 'overseeing your brother's care' had become one of taking on the entire job himself and not allowing another care-giver within a mile of his pet patient. He guarded his precious charge like a starving dog might defend it's last bone.

On the rare occasions he required a second pair of hands, for instance, when changing Dean's sweat-dampened bedlinen, he worked swiftly and efficiently with a fellow nurse, and then hurriedly ushered the poor woman out of the room as if she was carrying a communicable disease.

The fact that, had Ross not been the consummate professional that he was, he would have jumped Dean's bones in a nanosecond was a welcome source of light relief for Sam during that dark time. There was some heavy duty teasing to do, and Sam hoped beyond desperate hope that he would get the opportunity to do it.

xxxxx

It was mid-morning on the fifth day after his admission that Dean awoke; there had been encouraging signs the previous day, but this time it was for real. There was no vacant gazing into the distance through blurred, swimming vision; no groaning, glassy-eyed through a searing headache; no delirious whispers through barely moving lips.

He blinked back tears as daylight assaulted his eyes, and turned to look at his brother, who sat beside him reading a novel that he had bought from the hospital's second-hand book store.

"S'mmy" he croaked faintly, his voice weak through lack of use.

Engrossed in his book, Sam didn't hear the barely audible whisper.

"Sammy!" He tried again, as strong as he could manage this time; "get your nose ou' that friggin' book, an' talk to your brother …"

Sam turned, dropping the book. It was the first time he'd heard his brother say his name in almost a week and his heart swelled to bursting in his chest.

"Dean; Oh God Dean," he reached across and cupped Dean's face in his hands, "hey man, how you feelin'? D'y need any help? D'y need Dctor Lawrence?" He gasped with joy, "oh jeez, it's good to hear your voice bro'."

Dean peered up at his brother from between Sam's massive palms without lifting his head from the pillows, "y'gon' grow ovaries one day …" He mumbled, squirming free of the hands. "Wha' happened? I feel like I've been wrung out."

"You got blood poisoning dude," Sam gasped frantically, "your chickenpox rash got infected where you scratched it and the infection got into your blood. It got bad dude, real bad."

Sam paused before speaking, "dude I thought I was going to lose you".

xxxxx

Dean worked himself laboriously into a sitting position, swatting Sam's supporting hand away and wincing as the motion exerted wasted muscles and pulled on his drip line; "don' get rid of me that easily," he grinned wearily, adjusting the cannula across his face and trying with all his might to not look as shaky, sick and crushed with exhaustion as he felt.

Sam grasped Dean's wrist."How d'you feel?"

"Like crap; dizzy." Dean gulped back a deep breath, "how long since all this happened?"

"Five days;" Sam replied, "hell, you've been out of it, man!"

Dean blinked. "Five days?" He blinked again, brushing his clammy brow with the back of his drip-free hand, "I've lost five days?"

Sam nodded, "yeah dude, you've been real sick."

Fidgeting irritably, Dean tried to pull himself up straighter, panting from the effort. Sam shook his head and placed a hand flat on his brother's sore, rash mottled chest, stopping him from moving any further.

"Chill out bro', just rest."

"That's all I've been doing," Dean moaned sulkily, his voice noticeably stronger now; "m'bored."

"How can you be bored?" Sam sighed in exasperation, "you've only been awake five minutes!"

"Just am ..." Dean grunted petulantly, following up with a long yawn.

"Yeah well, too bad; resting is all you're going to do; you're not getting out until Doc Lawrence says you can." Sam smiled as he spoke, but Dean could see the hint of steel behind the smile. He knew, however much he whined and complained, he was going nowhere for the foreseeable future.

He sighed theatrically and glanced down to his inflamed, blistered chest.

The chickenpox, having followed it's natural course, was beginning to subside significantly reducing the merciless irritation and allowing for the removal of Dean's comical 'mittens', but it had left Dean's skin peppered with sore, inflamed blisters and nowhere more so that across his chest and down his still gauze-covered flank.

"Ugh" he looked up at Sam, "that's disgustin'."

Sam smiled; "it's fading now dude, the nurse has been rubbin' some vitamin stuff on it to stop it from scarring too badly, an …"

Dean yawned again, nestling back into his pillows, and gave a ghost of a smirk; "nurse eh? Good times," he smiled droopily, "bring it on…"

"ah, yeah, well about that, Dea …"

Sam trailed off when he realised Dean had sunk back into a much needed slumber.

Staring at his sleeping brother for the longest time Sam smiled, sighing with incalculable relief as he bent to pick up his book. At last it seemed Winchester luck had finally relented and decided to smile on the brothers.

xxxxx

But experience had taught the boys that Winchester luck is a notoriously fickle bint, and it just so happened that the next time Dean awoke, rested and far more alert than earlier, was at exactly the same moment that Ross was carrying out a routine check on his catheter.

It was difficult to say who was more shocked; Dean, on awakening to find an unfamiliar, dark-haired man crouching over him inspecting his pride and joy; or Ross when his patient suddenly let out a startled yelp and, astonishingly nimble for one at deaths door only forty eight hours ago, scuttled backwards up the bed, plastering himself against the headboard.

"Dude, what the friggin' hell?" Dean gasped, fumbling clumsily for the bed sheets and pulling them up, gripping them with white knuckled ferocity under his chin.

"Hey there Dean," Ross smiled kindly, calmly ignoring the fact his startled patient was pinned against the wall in a tangle of drip lines and nasal cannula, panting harshly and eyeing him up and down as if he were some kind of chainsaw murderer. "Sam told me you'd woken up this morning, buddy; it's great to see you up and awake Dean. How're you feeling, huh?"

"You're a fine one to talk about 'feelin'" Dean gasped indignantly, "I noticed you weren't missin' the opportunity to have a good 'feel' down there."

Still smiing, Ross stepped back and held out his gloved hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Hey Dean; I'm Ross, I'm your nurse." The kindness in his eyes which had so comforted Sam was clearly not yet reaching the bristling elder Winchester as he burrowed further back against the creaking headboard, "don't worry, buddy; you're perfectly safe with me, huh?"

Dean blinked and stared at the man in pebble-eyed disbelief … "nurse?" He gripped the bedclothes a little tighter.

Ross nodded cheerfully, and stepped toward the bed. "I would never have had you pegged for the bashful type, Dean;" he teased, "look, why don't you get back down into bed huh?"

"Where's Sam?" demanded Dean, still eyeing the man warily.

"You know, my job doesn't just stop at looking after my patients," Ross explained calmly, "Your brother is shattered. He needed a break and a change of scenery so, now you're improving, I've made him take a walk over to the coffee shop across the road for some fresh air, a latte and a pastry, he deserves it, huh?"

Dean's face noticeably softened at mention of his brother's name, and Ross took the opportunity to try to get through to him; "why don't you get yourself back into bed huh?" he cajoled gently, offering a hand to help his skittish patient.

Dean hesitated before making an attempt to move. "You're a nurse?" he asked as if to confirm the fact.

"That's right Dean," Ross replied, digging deeper into his substantial reserves of patience.

"But you're a …" Dean tried to fish for the right word.

"I'm a man; that's right, I'm a male nurse." Ross finished the sentence for Dean; anxious to get him back into bed like a good, well-behaved patient. "I guess we can tick your eyesight off the list of things to check, huh?"

Dean looked him up and down apprehensively, timidly releasing his iron grip on the bedclothes.

"And you're still a very sick man," he added with a hint of sternness; "why don't you get back into bed so I can make you comfortable, huh?"

Dean looked down, abashed, and flushed vivid pink when he realised how ridiculous he must look. He cleared his throat awkwardly and obediently shuffled back into the bed.

Ross smiled, and patted him on the shoulder. "Okay, big guy, I'm gonna need to check that catheter again; I wouldn't be surprised if you've pulled it out and slung it halfway across the room after that little manoeuvre, huh!"

Fighting an overwhelming urge to cross his legs, Dean grimaced. He reluctantly lay back and squeezed his eyes closed, white knuckled fists gripping the sheet beneath him.

"This isn't happening; this is not happening." He chanted inwardly, "there is not some random dude down there manhandling my privates." He took a deep, shuddering breath and felt his toes curl in gut-clenching embarrassment; "It's some cute blonde chick, blue eyes, pony tail, sensible shoes …" He groaned, huffing between pursed lips as a man's voice sounded; "y'ok there buddy, huh?" and completely spoiled the illusion.

"So, uh, don't they have any female nurses here?" Dean muttered through clenched teeth, trying to think of anything except what was happening right now.

Ross grinned without looking up from his work; "oh they do, but Sam's told me all about your exacting standards and by the sounds of it, none of ours are in your league, huh?"

Dean nodded in tight-lipped silence.

"Ok, all done there, Dean," Ross announced brightly, giving a final check over a job well done and discreetly pulling the bedclothes down. He stood to check on his furiously blushing patient who seemed to be trying his very level best to disappear through the mattress, and fought to suppress a grin at the sight.

"Yes, as far as good looks and femininity is concerned, I'm about the best this hospital can do, huh?" He gave a cheerful wink, as he straightened the tangled drip lines and leaned in towards Dean. whispering as if he had a secret to share; "At least that's what my partner, David, says!"

Dean's jaw dropped as Ross stood upright and pulled off his latex gloves with a mischevious snap.

xxxxx


	8. Chapter 8

Sam strolled through the bustling hospital, humming quietly to himself and sated by a slice of pecan pie washed down with a latte so enormous he could barely lift it. He nodded pleasantly to the desk nurse as he entered the ICU unit, and ambled casually towards Dean's room.

Knowing that Dean was now seemingly on the mend, Sam felt euphoric; unable to stop smiling. He'd earned himself some odd looks from passing strangers on his way to the coffee shop, but he didn't care, he had reason to smile; his brother was going to be okay. Life, at last, was good.

He knew, however, that now was when the challenge would begin; a well Dean equalled a restless Dean and surely it wouldn't be long before he would start whining about getting out, so Sam had decided to act quickly and stock up on gifts in an optimistic attempt at distraction. He was carrying the latest copy of Musclecars Weekly, two dog-eared Stephen King novels from the hospital's bookstore, a bottle of orange flavoured energy drink and a family-sized pack of Oreos on the basis that if he couldn't distract Dean's mind, distracting his stomach would be equally effective.

Juggling the goods to free up a hand, he twisted the handle and pushed the door open.

"Hey, Dean how's …"

The words died on his lips.

xxxxx

Now, Sam was not a squeamish man, not a squeamish man at all, but even by his standards, the sight that met him was enough to make him gasp in horror and drop his treats all over the floor.

Confronted with the sight of Dean's pale, bare ass resplendent in all it's exposed, spot-peppered glory through the gaping back of his loosely fastened hospital gown, Sam's jaw dropped as he watched his brother leaning heavily on the nightstand; trying with all his trembling, rubber-legged might to push himself upright.

"Sammy;" he gasped, "shake a leg an' help me get dressed, I'm bustin' outta here."

Rushing over to Dean, Sam grabbed both of his brother's arms."Have you lost your mind? What the hell are you tryin' to do?"

He cringed, noticing a trickle of blood across the back of Dean's hand, where in clambering out of bed, he had dragged the drip-stand over, dislodging the cannula; he didn't even want to think about where the catheter had gone.

"What's it look like?" Dean snapped weakly, trying and failing to shrug Sam's strong grip off of his arms, "I'm getting' outta here; Sam, do you know what these bastards have done?"

Unable to quite believe what he was seeing, Sam scanned the chaos in the room; bedclothes kicked on the floor, the drip-stand tipped across the bed, having scattered the contents of the nightstand across the floor. Hell, he knew his brother raised irresponsible to an art form, but this? This was scaling entirely new heights of moronic.

"Dean, get back in the friggin' bed!"

Dean was still trying to squirm free of Sam's grip, but in his painfully weakened condition, was no match for his brother's strength. Sam finally managed to wrestle Dean down, so he was at least sitting back on the bed, an action which also had the gratifying effect of hiding his exposed backside.

Dean glared as his brother loomed over him and managed the not inconsiderable feat of looking terrified and furious at the same time.

Taking several deep breaths, Sam silently counted to ten, before crouching down; placing a reassuring hand on his brother's knee.

"Now," he spoke slowly and calmly; "what have they done?" he asked looking deep into Dean's eyes, still glassy from the heavy medication coursing through his system, and trying to reassure himself that Dean was probably just a bit loopy as a result.

"My nurse" gasped Dean, "he's a friggin dude!"

"Uh yeah …" Sam responded calmly; he'd kind of been expecting this … only without the drama.

Dean's glare darkened; "a GAY dude."

"Yeah?" Sam hesitated briefly, "and your point is …?"

"A gay nurse dude Sam; he was just in here and his freakin' hands were all over me!"

Sam scraped his hand through his fringe and squinted, pinching the bridge of his nose; this was turning into a really bad day for disturbing images. "Dean," he sighed patiently; "he's a nurse; he can't do his job without touching you."

Dean snorted indignantly, "yeah, but he didn't have to enjoy it quite so much."

Sam took a deep breath; "Dean, I've got to know Ross really well while you were out of it," he began; "he's a fantastic guy, and one of the best nurses I've ever come across;" he hesitated before continuing, "what's the deal? You've never had a problem about gay guys before; live and let live, that's what you say isn't it?"

Dean glared at Sam, "dude, I've never had a problem with gay guys before because I've never had one maulin' my freakin' 'nads before!"

He looked up at Sam with genuine panic in his eyes, repeatedly glancing across at the door like he was developing a nervous tic and fidgeting skittishly on the side of the bed.

Sam sighed; at this point he was beginning to wish that Ross would sweep Dean off his feet and the friggin' pair of them would skip merrily off into a life of adoring bliss and leave him alone in peace with a good book and Dean's Oreos.

He sighed again; heck, why was life always so difficult?

Gently squeezing Dean's knee, he tried a different tack to see if he could make him see sense; "look, dude, you're not well. You have been seriously – and I mean SERIOUSLY ill; you almost died bro'." He struggled to keep his frustration in check and not raise his voice, "you're still on a lot of medication and youve got a long way to go before you'll be completely recovered."

He hesitated to see if his words had sunk in. The vacant expression on Dean's face seemed to indicate they hadn't, so Sam resorted to the direct approach.

"So, you're not leaving this hospital;" he announced, folding his arms to indicate the discussion was over. "If you try, I will stop you."

Dean shuffled uncomfortably on the edge of the bed and seemed to shrink smaller and smaller with every word that came out of Sam's mouth; "but Sam," he pleaded, "what if he, you know …" he glanced warily around the room as if he thought Ross might be hiding under the bed and leaned forward to Sam, lowering his voice to a whisper; "… what if he LIKES me?"

He asked with such wide-eyed earnestness that Sam had to bite his lip to suppress the snigger that threatened to escape.

Sam tried to arrange his features into a 'muzzle your ego and forget your macho insecurities Dean; he's a complete professional; of course he doesn't 'like' you that way' expression. He clearly failed spectacularly because Dean's mouth fell open in horror; "oh holy crap; he does; he wants to full-on Brokeback me …"

He tried to climb off the bed again, but Sam grappled him back down.

This was getting friggin' ridiculous.

"Dean," he scolded, "get your ass back into bed, NOW!"

"No," Dean snapped petulantly, "I wanna leave."

Deciding that actions speak louder than words; Sam bent down and grabbed both Dean's ankles, lifting them and planting them firmly onto the mattress, and finished off by tugging the bedclothes up over his protesting brother.

"Dean, you're staying; that's the end of it." He snapped, dropping the magazine and the books onto Dean's lap.

Dean looked about to argue, but Sam cut him off; "I'm much stronger than you right now, and we can keep having this fight if you insist, but it'll slow down your recovery and then you'll stay in here even longer."

"But Sam …" Dean's voice took on a desperate whine.

"DEAN!"

Dean slumped back, looking up at Sam like a despondent puppy who'd just had his nose rubbed in it, and picked up one of the books Sam had selected for him, glancing at it's cover.

"I've read this one," he muttered miserably.

xxxxx

They both turned as the door opened and Ross breezily strolled through, carrying a small tray. Sam couldn't help a chuckle when Dean recoiled as though the ravening hordes of Genghis Khan had galloped into the room.

Ross smiled, "hey there Sam, how y'doin', huh?" His smile dropped when he looked around the room.

"What the hell …?"

Sam cleared his throat, "uh, we've just had the discussion we always have in these places about when he's getting out … sometimes it gets a bit heated!"

"So I see;" Ross put his tray down and fussed around his pet patient, straightening the drip stand, and checking the lines. He took in a sharp breath when he saw the blood on the back of his patient's hand.

"Oh crap, you've done a number on yourself there, huh?" He gently pulled the crooked cannula out, apologising softly as his wary patient yelped colourfully and attempted to pull his hand away.

"Hey buddy, I can see you're gonna be trouble; I'll have to keep my eye on you, huh?" Ross turned and winked at Sam.

Sam folded his arms; "Ross, you have no idea," he muttered shaking his head, and shooting Dean a weapons-grade bitchface when he had the audacity to glare at him.

But, even in full-on bitchface mode, he couldn't stay angry for long, and within a moment he found himself sitting beside the bed as Ross carefully slipped a new cannula into a fresh vein, watching sympathetically as Dean grimaced, muttering every obscene word he knew (and it was an impressively wide selection) between gritted teeth.

Ross attached the line and taped the whole thing down. "OK, buddy, all done. Hey, let's try to keep this one in place, huh?" He smiled as Dean released the breath he had been holding.

Sam stood up; "so have you learned a lesson, Dean?"

Without looking him in the eye, Dean grunted ingraciously; "quit talkin' to me like I'm friggin three!"

"Well quit actin' like it!" Sam countered.

Xxxxx

Sam sat in the corner of the room trying to be invisible as Ross conducted another barrage of checks (including another one on the dreaded catheter which Dean had once again managed to dislodge during his escape attempt).

Sam had desperately wanted to leave the room, and give his brother some privacy, but his traumatised brother had gripped his wrist so hard to prevent him leaving, the feeling was only just coming back to his fingers. He wasn't sure if Dean wanted a reassuring presence or a witness in the event of any molestation, but the simple fact was that there were a whole lot of places Sam would rather have been than where he currently was.

He watched amused as Dean's suspicious eyes followed Ross' every move as he nervously pulled the bed sheets up to his chest at every possible opportunity, only for the ever-patient nurse to calmly fold them back down again.

"OK there, Dean, I think you're all set, anything else you need, huh?"

Plastering a plastic smile across his face, Dean shook his head unconvincingly; "no" he croaked.

"Okay, well now I'm afraid mean ol' Doctor Lawrence wants me to take some more blood for him to play with;" he looked up at Sam, "I swear that man's a vampire, huh?"

An ironic glance passed between the brothers.

He looked down at Dean; "now you're not gonna shatter all my illusions and wimp out on me are you, huh?"

Dean gripped the bedlinen fiercely under his chin and shook his head.

"Good" smiled Ross, patting Dean's shoulder again, "I'd hate for you to pass out because then I might have to give you the kiss of life".

Dean spluttered indignatly as Sam turned away, unable to hide his laughter.

Xxxxx

Once again, Sam found himseklf sitting next to the bed as Ross tightened a strap around Dean's arm; "okay Dean, make a fist, pretend you're going to punch Doctor Lawrence for me."

Noticing how pale his brother suddenly looked, Sam leaned close to Dean and spoke softly to him; "y'ok dude?"

Dean looked down into his lap, wincing at the pinch of the needle , "kiss my ass;" he grunted.

Sam smiled, "ew no, I saw it, it's still all spotty!"

"Doin' good there, buddy;" Ross reassured quietly.

Not wanting to humiliate his brother any further, insofar as that was actually possible, by doing anything so 'chick-flicky' as holding his hand; Sam threaded a hand through the gap at the back of the bile yellow hospital gown his brother wore and placed a warm palm flat on Dean's bare back, immediately feeling the tension release as the needle was withdrawn.

"Great job; all done;" Ross taped a band-aid over the tiny puncture wound and patted his patient's shoulder, smiling as Dean irritably tugged the bedclothes back up to his chin again.

Placing the full syringe on the little tray he'd carried in, Ross discreetly dropped a cloth over it, and turned to the brothers, pulling off his latex gloves.

"Okay then, now seeing as I'm not allowed to go and steal a lollipop from the paediatric ward, how about I reward you with a nice refreshing bedbath instead, huh?"

xxxxx


	9. Chapter 9

Sam smiled, ignoring Dean's eyes boring into the back of his head as Ross left the room; there was a soft click and the door closed behind him.

He braced himself for the onslaught he knew would come.

Dean looked for all the world like he would bolt again, "dude;" he pleaded, "you gotta get me out of here."

"Dean," Sam sighed, "he's only going to give you a bath."

Dean's eyes widened in indignation; "Sam, exactly … He's. Going. To. Give. Me. A. Bath." He panted manically, "dude, I know how gay you can be, but surely even you can see that that's wrong in just about every way!" He clutched a fistful of Sam's shirtfront, reeling him in.

"How is it wrong?" Sam shrugged.

"Dudes do not bath other dudes; surely even you know that?" Dean folded his arms.

"I bathed you a few nights ago," Sam offered weakly, cringing at the thought.

"Yeah, well, you're blood," Dean replied, "and you only jus' qualify as a dude most of the time, so that don't count."

Sam took a long deep breath; "Dean, that man has been washing you and taking care of you from the moment you were admitted in this hospital; he's already seen everything you've got to offer."

Dean gagged at the thought, "this is different," he grunted.

"How?"

"It just is." Dean huffed petulantly.

Sam rolled his eyes; "great argument bro', ever thought about going into politics?"

"Shaddup;" came the response.

Dean looked up to Sam, with pleading eyes.

"Sam, you do it …"

Sam frowned, "Dean, I am not insulting the poor guy by doing his job for him." He rubbed a hand across his brow; "anyway, I'm still suffering PTSD flashbacks from the last time I had to bathe you."

"Well, tell him I don't need a bath…" Dean suggested hopefully.

"No way," replied Sam, wrinkling his nose, "I don't mean to be blunt or nothin', but man, you stink."

"But Sam, what if …"

Sam cut his brother off with a raised palm; "Dude, give it a rest. Ross is going to give you a bath." He planted his hands on his hips; "yeah, I know he's gay, and I know he's a little bit sweet on you; but the guy has a heart of gold and he's the best damn nurse I've ever met, so you're just gonna have to suck it up and deal with it."

Dean visibly wilted, realising the battle was lost; "Sam?"

"What?"

"Please don't use that word," he croaked.

xxxxx

It was about half an hour before Ross barrelled back through the door pushing a trolley; his familiar sunny smile lighting up the room.

"Ok, who's ready for a freshen up, huh?"

Sam stood up and moved to walk away, "Hi Ross, I'll jus …"

Dean's arm shot out and grabbed a fistful of denim at the crotch of the retreating jeans.

Doubling over, Sam gasped; "easy Dean, that's more than my Jeans you're gripping there."

He wormed out of Dean's grip; "I'll, uh, just go and grab a coffee …"

Dean watched, in wide eyed panic as he watched Sam disappear hastily through the door, closing it firmly behind him.

Ross smiled, and turned to his patient who was cowering behind the bedclothes.

"OK Dean, you don't have to be shy; we're both guys," Ross reassured with an understanding smile, "nothing you've got that I don't see in the mirror every morning, huh?" He quietly wrestled the bedclothes from Dean's iron grip and folded them down across his lap.

He reached round behind Dean's back and undid the gown, "let's get rid of this disgusting thing shall we, huh?" He pulled the gown off and screwed it up, shoving it onto the bottom shelf of the trolley, "I'm telling you buddy, yellow just isn't your colour, huh?"

Dean gave a tightlipped nod, blushing furiously as Ross fussed, laying a waterproof sheet on the bed behind him.

"Now, just lie back – and chill out, huh?"

He stepped back and shook his head, stifling a laugh as he looked at his patient lying before him as stiff as a board, eyes squeezed tightly shut ferociously gripping the plastic sheet beneath him.

xxxxx

Dean flinched as he felt a damp cloth sweep slowly and gently across his shoulders; a comforting warmth permeated the clenched muscles there.

"How's that Dean, not too hot, huh?"

"Uh, no, s'good," mumbled Dean, cringing as he felt the damp, soapy cloth sweep again, lower down across his chest, and under his arms before it was once again rinsed.

Ross worked gently and discreetly, taking great care not to aggravate the slowly fading rash and talking softly to his patient; "how's that feel, Dean, huh?" "you gotta tell me if it hurts, buddy, huh?" "tell me if you get cold, huh" "lift your arm for me, huh?"

Against all his instincts, Dean felt himself begin to relax under the soothing and confident touch; the warmth of the water, the comforting voice, the faint fragrance of the soap. Ross was quick to sense this also; he smiled as he felt the rock-hard knotted muscles in Dean's belly, soften and relax beneath his touch; "doin' good, buddy;" he encouraged, "why don't you just have a little nap there, huh?"

Dean felt the bedclothes being folded aside to give Ross access to his left leg, and drifted further and further into oblivion as the expert hands did their work, massaging and soothing aching muscles wasted and stiffened by days of inactivity. By the time Ross had folded the sheets across to wash Dean's right leg, he was sunk bonelessly into the pillows snoring peacefully.

xxxxx

There was a timid tap at the door, and it opened a crack. Sam peeped through the gap; "is it safe to come back?"

"Yeah, almost done; he's doin' fine," Ross replied with a smile, as he continued the therapeutic massage, gently working the Vitamin E oil into the healing skin down Dean's side, "uh, I think you might be in for a dull evening though, huh?" he grinned, "he's pretty much out for the count!"

Sam eyed the Stephen King novels and the Oreos; "oh, I'll get by," he smiled; "great job Ross!"

Ross finished his work, wiped his hands and pulled the bed sheets up over his peacefully sleeping patient. I'll give you a gown for him when he wakes up, you can slip that on him, huh?"

Sam sat down, tearing open the pack of Oreos, and offered one to Ross who took it with a smile; "I'm on a day off tomorrow, but I'll make sure to leave instructions for whoever is looking after him."

"So they do give you time off then?" Sam grinned a crumbly black grin.

"Oh they do occasionally, if I beg pathetically enough, huh?" Ross replied with a smile.

Sam laughed, "well if I was a hospital manager with a nurse as good as you, I'd make you work every single day!"

Ross laughed, and slapped Sam on the shoulder; "just try and stop him going over the wall before I get back, huh?"

xxxxx

It was mid-morning before Dean opened his eyes again to find Sam sitting beside him. "Hey there, dude, you've only slept for fourteen hours; I can see how traumatic that bath must have been!"

Dean looked around vacantly, and yawned, scratching his head as Sam looked on.

"How're you feelin', dude?"

Dean yawned, "better, I think…" Sam dared to think that maybe, he actually looked a bit better.

Dean shifted awkwardly, then lifted the sheets, taking a long look under them.

"Sammy, why am I naked?"

Sam got up, "Oh yeah, you nodded off during that terrifying bedbath." He reached down into the nightstand and pulled out the fresh gown. "Ross left this for me to give to you because he didn't want to wake you up."

Sam unfolded the powder blue robe; "look he even found you a blue one - said yellow wasn't your colour."

Dean rubbed his eyes wearily, and looked at the gown; nodding his approval at the blue over the yellow.

"Lets get you in it, don't want you scarin' the nurses away."

He helped Dean lean forward and slipped the robe off fastening it across his brother's back.

"Ross is off today," Sam muttered as he tied the fastener; "now don't get too excited, but you might get a lady nurse."

Dean smiled; "about friggin' time;" he yawned, laying back into the pillows, "bring it on."

He looked at Sam; "hungry Sammy, where's those Oreos?"

Sam looked sheepishly down at the floor, "uh guess I'll have to get some more …"

xxxxx

It was around an hour later that the door opened and a middle-aged nurse walked smartly through; thin and sharp-faced, her grey hair pulled back in a severe bun; she looked down at a hand-written piece of paper; "Mr. Wilton?" she asked efficiently, looking at Dean over small, horn-rimmed glasses.

"Uh, yeah, I guess so," Dean muttered hesitantly.

She turned to look down her nose at Sam, "and you are…?"

Sam glared at her, "I'm Sam Wilton, his brother."

"Okay;" she said economically; without looking at either brother; "Mr Wilton, I need to do some checks and take some blood, your brother will wait outside until I'm finished."

Dean looked up at her; "but he …"

"Now, I'm sure a strapping young man like you doesn't need someone to hold his hand during a simple medical procedure." She turned on her heel to face Sam; "now, if you wouldn't mind Mr. Wilton."

Sam stood open mouthed; "but …"

Seeing that his brother was about to argue, and not wanting to create a scene, particularly involving someone who was going to be pointing sharp objects in his vicinity, Dean reluctantly gestured toward the door; "S'okay dude," he muttered glumly; "this won't take long, better do as she says."

Sam's glare darkened and he shot a black look at the oblivious woman as he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

The elderly nurse conducted her checks swiftly and efficiently; making notes of her patient's temperature, pulse and blood pressure then prepared her syringe, making no attempt to hide it until the last minute as Ross had done.

"Arm please," she demanded.

Dean offered his arm nervously; "I won't have any blood left if that Lawrence guy takes much more," he snorted in an attempt to lighten the situation.

"He'll take as much as he needs to confirm your recovery;" she responded dryly, preparing her equipment without looking Dean in the eye.

Dean huffed as she tightened the band around his arm and instructed him to make a fist, turning his head away as he felt the pinch of the needle.

The tiny pinch became a sharp sting and he flinched.

"Keep still" she barked, withdrawing the needle; "I'll need to try again, your veins are very poor."

Dean gritted his teeth, longing to tell her to stick her syringe up her ass and that Ross never had any problems with his 'poor' veins, but thought better of it as she grasped his wrist again.

He grimaced, finching again as the needle slipped into his arm again.

"Young man, you need to stop being such a baby, it's a simple procedure that will happen much more quickly if you stop moving around."

Dean swore under his breath, tears of painful frustration pricking his eyes as the woman made a third attempt at drawing the required blood.

"Friggin' sonofabitch" he grunted between clenched teeth.

Succeeding at the third attempt, she pressed a band-aid over the bleeding wound. "There now, all that unnecessary fuss over a little pinprick."

She smiled for the first time since entering the room. It was a charmless smile and Dean recoiled with a shudder; he decided he preferred her a lot more when she was being a hatchet-faced old boot.

Sam was eventually allowed back in the room, after a full 45 minutes of angrily pacing the corridor.

He stormed past her without acknowledgement as she left the room, ignoring the muttered comment of 'so rude' as he did so, and was appalled to find Dean sat on the bed looking paler than he had at any time after waking up.

Watery eyes looked up at Sam; "dude, we've ganked things that were more affectionate than that."

Sam smiled, "I was tempted man, so tempted!"

"She friggin' butchered my arm;" Dean groaned, pulling off the band aid to show Sam the purple bruising that was already blossoming across the crook of his elbow.

Sam's jaw clenched in anger. "Why would a sour old trout like that ever want to be a nurse?"

Dean huffed a bitter laugh, "well she's gone now."

"Yeah, and she's not damn-well comin' back; I'll see to that." Sam snorted angrily, heading towards the door.

Dean called after him, "hey, get me some friggin' Oreos while you're out there raising hell, Rambo."

Sam turned with a nod as he opened the door.

"Oh, and Sam"

"What?"

"You know, you should give that Ross a chance; he's a good guy."

Xxxxx


	10. Chapter 10

"Doin' good there Dean, huh?"

It was two days since Doctor Lawrence had encouraged his recovering patient to start getting out and about, and Dean was for once in his life enthusiastically following the doctor's advice, making the most of finally being free of IV lines, catheters and other attachments of varying degrees of inconvenience.

Running Sam ragged, he had explored the length and breadth of the hospital, making regular visits to the washrooms, the bookshop, the cafeteria and the gardens. Between them, Sam and Ross were having the devil's own job in rounding up the wandering Winchester and keeping him anywhere near his bed.

This particular morning, Ross walked in on Dean who was stood leaning on the windowsill and staring wistfully out of the window watching the world go by while Sam stewed angrily in the corner.

"Hey Ross," Dean grinned, "just takin' a look at the outside world, almost forgot what it looks like."

Ross raised his eyebrows at Sam's moody bitchface.

"Do I sense you two have had 'that' chat again, huh?" he asked.

Dean rolled his eyes; "yeah, I feel like a million friggin' dollars and Samantha Sadcase here still thinks I shouldn't leave the hospital."

"yeah, well Dean," Ross smiled, "I hate to break it to you, but Samantha's right."

Sam's head shot up; "see'" he snapped triumphantly, pointing at Ross, "SEE!"

"Jeez, I can't believe I've got you two friggin' mother hens cluckin' around after me." Dean huffed melodramatically, and glared at the smiling nurse, "I thought you were supposed to be my buddy Ross; back me up here."

Ross strolled over and gently patted Dean on the shoulder, "Dean, only a real buddy will tell you what you don't want to hear!"

Dean grunted his reluctant agreement.

"Now, I need to check your vitals, and if you behave, I'll tell you a secret!"

Dean looked up quizzically and flopped heavily on the end of the bed while the nurse carefully measured his pulse, blood pressure and temperature.

He jotted the notes on his clipboard. "Lookin' good," he muttered as he wrote.

"I know I am" Dean grinned.

Ross treated him to a theatrical frown; "don't you go teasing a man now; you might just end up regretting it, huh?" he warned wagging his finger in Dean's direction.

Dean sniggered, "don' swing that way, sorry dude!"

"Pity" sighed Ross.

"Hey you two, get a room;" Sam called from across the bed with a grimace.

The two men looked at each other and laughed.

"Anyway what's this secret?" asked Dean.

"Ah yeah," Ross slipped the clipboard back on the rack at the end of the bed; "if Lawrence is happy with your vital signs today, and I see no reason why he shouldn't be, he's going to let you go home tomorrow."

Dean's face lit up; "tomorrow, cool!" He hesitated, "not today?"

Ross rolled his eyes and looked in exasperation across at Sam who shrugged.

"Do I have to give you a shot of sedative to make you stay one more night, huh?" Ross scolded.

"'s'long as you don't tie me up."

Ross sighed again; "I should be so lucky, huh?"

Both men fell into uproarious laughter again. Sam wearily shook his head and couldn't help a smile as he watched the two men banter and backslap.

"Seriously though," Ross composed himself, "One more night of resting, taking it easy and looking after yourself. That's not too much to ask is it, huh?"

Dean huffed quietly.

"Because if I find you overdoing it and jeopardising your chances of getting out, I'm going to send the lovely nurse you saw while I was off, to come back and tuck you in, huh?.

Dean paled; "okay, I'll be good," he gulped in a small voice.

"She won't be comin' back anytime soon," Sam snorted, "I told her exactly what I thought of her!"

Ross grinned, "yeah I heard it … and I was twenty miles away at home at the time."

xxxxx

He gathered up his things, glancing across at Sam.

"Sam, you look exhausted" he smiled sympathetically; "try to get some rest, it's all over now, huh?"

Sam looked up with a forced smile, "I'm okay Ross, just got a damned headache."

"Take it easy, buddy, huh?" Ross smiled, patting Sam on the shoulder; he looked across at Dean with a menacing frown; "and you, trouble, you leave your brother alone; he needs some rest!"

Dean nodded obediently as Ross left the room.

xxxxx

"You okay dude?" He asked Sam, "you look like crap."

Sitting back on the chair, Sam leaned against the wall; "yeah, I'm fine, jus' tired."

Dean looked unconvinced.

"Look, man; I barely slept while you were bad; I guess now the pressure's off, it's just catching up with me."

Dean frowned and shuffled over; "why don't you get some shuteye on the bed?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam nodded. "I'll even ask Ross to come and give you a bed bath;" Dean added mischieviously.

Sam laughed as he lay down; "Sorry bro', It's you he digs, not me."

Lowering himself into the chair beside the bed, Dean picked up the magazine that Sam had bought him and scanned the room; "Damnit, Sammy, never did get my freakin' Oreos back!"

But his sleeping brother never heard him.

xxxxx

The big day had finally come with Lawrence giving his long awaited permission for Dean to leave, and he found himself stood impatiently in reception fidgeting wildly like a cat on hot bricks waiting for Sam to fetch the Impala.

He spun round when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

It was Ross.

"Didn't think you could escape without saying goodbye, huh?

"Hey dude, good to see you;" Dean grinned, "thanks for all your help, it's been great knowin' you."

Ross chuckled, "presumably that was after Sam managed to convince you that I wasn't going to molest you to within an inch of your life, huh?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Clearing his throat, Dean looked down at his feet, a faint blush colouring his cheeks, "uh, yeah … I kinda, um … sorry 'bout that!"

Ross laughed, "Just be thankful I'm already spoken for;" he grinned, "or I might not have tried so hard to control myself, huh?"

Dean snorted with laughter; "I must remember to meet your David and thank him!"

Strolling back through the door towards the two laughing men, Sam called to Dean; "your carriage awaits bro'."

Ross shook the brothers' hands warmly and handed Dean a slip of paper.

"My phone number," he said; "if you boys ever need any help, I remember Sam sayin' your job was dangerous, you just give me a call, huh?"

The brothers smiled; "thanks Ross, will do."

Turning smartly, they walked across the foyer, catching a last glimpse of their waving friend reflected in the glass door as it slid across in front of them. Sam could have sworn there was a hint of sadness behind the broad smile.

xxxxx

The Impala rolled to a halt in the car park of a fair to middling motel about thirty miles from the hospital.

Climbing out of the car, Dean paused, taking a long deep breath and relishing the refreshing breeze after the stifling heatwave and the hospital's stuffy atmosphere.

Wrapping an arm across his brother's back, Sam guided him toward the building; "We're stayin' here overnight, then I've arranged for us to go to Bobby's for a couple of weeks while you recuperate."

Dean huffed, but closed his mouth. Sam was still tired and irritable, and for once he thought better than to argue.

Unlocking a profoundly unattractive door to an equally uninspiring room, they bundled their duffels down in the corner and flopped on their respective beds.

Feels good to be outta hospital, huh,? Sam smiled, looking across at Dean.

"Oh, jeez, you've been listening to Ross too much, you're doing it now!" Dean groaned, lethargically pulling his socks off.

Sam grinned, scratching his head through a mop of comically messy hair; "gonna have a shower;" he sighed, "I didn't have the luxury of Ross giving me regular bed baths; I had to make do with a sink in the mens room; feel like I got cooties."

Dean cringed, "ew, too much information bro'; go an' get your stinky carcass in that shower," he rose from the bed with a grunt, "I'll make the coffee."

He padded barefoot across to the kitchenette as the bolt slid home on the bathroom door.

xxxxx

He was still stood by the counter waiting for the kettle to boil when the bolt slid back and Sam stumbled out of the bathroom; "Oh crap Dean;" he gasped in wild-eyed horror, "crap, crap, freakin' double crap!"

Dean glanced at Sam's spot-peppered chest and dropped the mug he was holding.

"crap!"

The two brothers stared at each other in silence until eventully Dean spoke.

"I thought you said …"

Sam miserably wrapped his arms across his chest as if hiding the spots would somehow make them disappear; "it said on the internet that in extremely rare cases it is possible for someone who already had it to get it again." He looked across at Dean, "but I figured, nah - even we couldn't be that unlucky…"

Dean groaned, he was already dialling the number.

"Hey, Ross … ?"

xxxxx

end


End file.
